


First Date

by mylittleredgirl



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/M, First Dates, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:28:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29908710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mylittleredgirl/pseuds/mylittleredgirl
Summary: “Come out with me sometime.” His voice is pitched casual, and he hopes it isn’t obvious how many times he’s practiced in the mirror. “On a date.”
Relationships: Chakotay/Kathryn Janeway
Comments: 58
Kudos: 129





	First Date

*

_“So, we’re on Earth,” Chakotay says, resting his finger on the tiny model of Voyager on her desk—save the ever-present cup of coffee, the only familiar symbol in her new office._

_“Yes, we are.” She raises her eyebrows, like she’s waiting for the punchline. They’ve been home for three months._

_“Come out with me sometime.” His voice is pitched casual, and he hopes it isn’t obvious how many times he’s practiced in the mirror. “On a date.”_

_“… a date?”_

_She’s smiling, lips pressed together like she’s holding in the kind of delighted laugh he hasn’t heard from her in years, and he feels a rush of relief so strong he wishes he were sitting down. “Anywhere you want to go. You decide.”_

_She tilts her head, considering him from a new angle. “I’ve charted our course long enough, don’t you think?”_

*

He picks her up at noon.

“I expected you to take me to dinner, for a first date,” she comments, and the way she says _first date_ tells him she’s just as nervous as he is, that she finds this just as strange.

He thought about it, when she asked him to choose the venue, but: “We’ve had our share of candle-lit dinners over the years.”

In the sunshine, he can see the slight blush that touches her cheeks. “You’re right.” And then, “So, maybe not quite our first date after all.”

Her Starfleet-assigned apartment is less than a kilometer from the Presidio, and they walk toward the park with her arm tucked in his. That’s familiar, too.

The dinners continued, all the way through their time in the Delta Quadrant, but he knows they’re both thinking about the early years, when the candles and music meant something besides ambiance, besides habit. He remembers those nights almost like a dream, the flowers he would bring to her door, the wine and soft jazz, her long hair loose around her shoulders because she knew he liked it. What he felt for her then was overwhelming, a desire all the more potent for being unfulfilled, a shared infatuation he really thought could simmer for seventy thousand light-years without being tended.

He feels decades older now, worn down by Borg space and everything after. Raking through it all for Starfleet’s benefit has been exhausting. It should feel like closure, he thinks, but watching their old, hopeful log entries feels like the opposite, opening him up and leaving him unsettled. In some ways, this—the urge to ask her out, now, after so many years—is part of that, an old loose end he was never willing to tie off.

He knows it’s more than that, or it wouldn’t have taken him so many sleepless nights going back and forth with himself. The ship is home, their surviving crew is safe, and their friendship has weathered storms far rockier than a potential romantic rejection. After weeks of restless nights he finally realized that the one precious thing he still has left to lose is the old, well-worn hope that at the end, it would be her.

“You’re awfully quiet,” he observes as they walk.

She shakes her head. “I’m trying not to talk about work, and that’s all I can think of—not that that’s new. What else do people talk about?” 

He chuckles. “Harry told me this picnic spot is good for bird-watching.”

“Oh good,” she says. “Normal people talk about birds.” Her hand tightens around his arm. “You didn’t tell Harry that—?”

He tries not to read too much into her question, but doesn’t quite keep the bitterness from his voice. “That we’re taking a walk in the park? No, I didn’t.”

“It’s not that I’m embarrassed,” she says quickly, “but who knows if—”

 _—if this will be a one-time thing_ , he hears, even if that’s not what she was going to say. “They have too much of a vested interest,” Chakotay cuts her off. That’s why he didn’t tell Harry in the first place. “That was always part of it. 143 opinions.”

She stops walking, pulling him to a halt. “It’s enough to manage our own expectations, don’t you think?”

He lets out a breath, and his annoyance with it, replaced with a tiny curl of excitement in his belly. If this is awkward, at least he’s not the only one feeling it. “Yes, it is.” After a moment of hesitation, he reaches out and tucks her hair behind her ear—an intimate gesture, and a calculated one. It feels strange, and he wants that, wants this to be different than the other walks they’ve taken.

He doesn’t know if this can work, if those old feelings will ever fit the people they are now. He can’t quite believe they’ll be able to see past the years of heartbreak they dealt each other, but he also can’t believe they _won’t_. Because he’s tried—with passing aliens, with Seven, with a lieutenant commander from Admiral Briard’s office who asked him to lunch three days in a row. When he thinks about his future, Kathryn’s is still the only face he sees.

She gives him a little smile, and they start walking again.

It’s a sunny day, rare for San Francisco in the spring, and they move toward El Ponín Spring at a wandering pace to accommodate the people around them. Children bump into them more than once, racing up and down the trail with all the pent-up energy of a winter spent indoors. It’s a wonder, to be so anonymous in a crowd of familiar species.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of hearing Federation languages,” Kathryn says, and he smiles, heart warming with the reminder that even off the command deck, they’re usually thinking the same thing. “I’m sure eventually this will stop feeling like a long away mission.”

“Is that why you haven’t decorated your office?” When she invited him in, her apartment was equally bare. Containers from _Voyager_ were stacked in a corner of her living space. _These will brighten the place up_ , she said, about the flowers he brought, and he felt an itch to build her something, to give her something grounding and personal.

Her spine straightens, coiled and defensive. “The Golden Gate Bridge out the window isn’t decoration enough?”

“They did get you a nice view,” he offers. “They put me in the basement of the astrophysics department, for some reason. Mortimer Harren is down the hall.”

“I complained about that, you know. You shouldn’t have to trek all the way across campus to meet with me.”

He doesn’t mind the walk—even the chilly March rain feels good, after so long with no weather at all, and there’s a stop he always makes on the way. “I don’t hear you complaining when I bring you fresh coffee. They could have put me in prison.”

She frowns. “I still don’t like it when you joke about that.”

“Starfleet has been very generous.”

“Too much so, in some places.” Off his surprised look, she rolls her eyes. “Not _that_. But even you’ve got to admit that they’ve been awfully charitable in their analysis of our record.”

He tries to reconcile her statement with the months they’ve spent in front of a rotating panel of officers, combing the depths of reports on anomalies and planets he doesn’t even remember. “Were you expecting a court-martial?”

She gives him a look.

“You _were_.” He wonders what incident she’s thinking of—and when his mind rattles off a string of options, he realizes that he shouldn’t be surprised she considered that a real possibility.

“And here we are,” she says, with a cheer that sounds forced, “still talking about work.”

He wants to press, but lets it go. She steps off the trail and crouches low next to a small patch of flowers. “Chakotay, look at these. They used to pop up every spring at my mother’s house.”

His very first thought is whether they’re edible, useful to the ship they’re no longer on, and he shakes his head. “What are they?”

“Hyacinths.” She tucks one finger under a small pink flower, tilting it up for a better look. “When’s the last time I could recognize a wildflower without a tricorder? I almost feel like we’re on the holodeck.”

“It’ll take some getting used to. We were aliens for seven years on every planet we went to.”

“Always on alert for the other shoe to fall.” She stands up and dusts her hands on her skirt. “Always in uniform.”

“Almost always,” he corrects, thinking about one planet in particular. He had nothing in mind for this lunch plan beyond Harry’s casual mention of a favorite local park, but Chakotay realizes now it’s no accident that he chose somewhere green.

It takes them a while to find an empty park bench. It doesn’t have the best view for bird-watching, but that feels like a fair trade for a little privacy.

He opens the temperature-controlled shoulder bag he’s been carrying, sandwiches and chilled sparkling wine. Their hands cross, reaching for the glasses, and for the briefest moment, neither of them pulls away.

She spills some wine on the ground as she pours, like an accidental sacrament. He doesn’t share the thought with her—for all the times she bet their lives on luck, she has no patience for superstition. “Cheers?” she offers, handing him a dripping glass.

“To new beginnings,” he suggests, and hopes she’ll smile.

She does, but it doesn’t fill her whole face the way her smiles used to when she last wore that dress. He wonders if it’s just his memory of her, colored first by longing and then by a sometimes bitter nostalgia.

He should unwrap the sandwiches, but he’s caught by the sunlight reflecting in the glass, in the colors of her hair, on the silver chain resting on her collarbone. _Always in uniform_ , she said, and while it’s not literally true, it feels like it’s been years since he’s seen her without it—even longer since he looked at her and was unable to tear his eyes away.

He takes a sip of wine, feels the bubbles on his tongue. “I always liked that color on you.”

She brushes her hands down along the soft blue fabric, spreading her fingers over her thighs. “I’m surprised it fits,” she says, and he laughs, because their collective overindulgence has been the going joke among the _Voyager_ crew. Suddenly spoiled by un-rationed replicator access and endless familiar, fresh foods, he’s not the only one who’s had to replicate a larger uniform.

It takes him a moment to realize Kathryn’s not laughing with him, that her face is turned away from him as she takes a long drink. After a moment, she says, with a gravity that tells him this has nothing to do with her weight: “It’s hard to believe anything still does.”

He breathes with her for a few minutes, drinking wine in silence.

Finally he asks, “Are you thinking about taking off the uniform?” They’ve been in most of the debriefing meetings together. He saw her face when Admiral Paris suggested, like it was a _fait accomplit_ , that when all this was over, she’d be up for promotion.

“And do _what?”_ The question sounds wrenched from somewhere deep inside her.

He doesn’t know, not for her or for him. As anxious as he is to stop rehashing the seven years they spent stranded in deep space, he feels a creeping dread whenever he thinks about the uncertainty that lies beyond it.

She says, “I never thought about what happens next. Not since—I mean I did, at first, when I thought I could pick up my old life again.”

“Mark.” Chakotay tries to brush aside the old, uncomfortable jealousy. On New Earth, after the plasma storm, she put Mark’s picture away. It reappeared in her ready room the week after they returned.

Chakotay remembers lying in his quarters, too sick with longing to sleep, consumed with the damnable thought that he didn’t want _Voyager_ to get home at all if it meant he’d lose her to someone else. He thought _almost_ would be enough, forever, if it was her. For a while, it was.

It was a strange thing, after they got back to Earth, finally meeting Mark, meeting his wife—who’s lovely, and quiet, and nothing at all like Kathryn.

“Yes, Mark,” Kathryn echoes, “but I don’t know how long it was really about him. I knew we’d be declared dead, and he’d have no reason to wait. After a while, it was less about missing a man I once loved, and more—” Kathryn laughs, but it’s high and fake. “Look at me. We’re on our first date, and I’m talking about my ex.”

“Stop that,” he says, and cups his hand over hers. “Tell me. Please.”

She turns her hand over under his, palm to palm. On an impulse, he slides his fingers between hers. “In some ways, I said goodbye to him long before he had the chance to say goodbye to me. I would have been no good to him, I know that, but he was this hope I held onto—that we’d make it home, and I would still be the woman I was when I left. After that…”

He’s grateful for the warm pressure of her hand while he waits her out.

“I didn’t have a picture anymore, of what would come after the finish line. Maybe I hoped, for a while.” Her thumb brushes against his, and he remembers the slipstream, and dinner, and a desperation in her eyes that made him agree to something that very nearly got them all killed—not that he ever managed to talk her out of danger, even when he tried his best. “At the end, I just wanted it to be over.” She looks up at him then, raw and open in a way he hasn’t seen her in years. “And I put you through hell.”

He can’t breathe for a moment, the intensity of her stare and her hand in his rushing through him like electricity seeking the solid ground beneath his feet. He feels a little nauseous. “Kathryn, you did what you had to, for all of us to survive. And I’m here, aren’t I?”

She shakes her head, and he sees tears in her eyes. _“Why?”_

 _Because I love you_ , he thinks, and the thought shocks him in its clarity—because it’s been years since he thought it, and that feeling has changed and twisted so often he could no longer recognize it.

He’s not ready to say it out loud, but he’s suddenly sure that one day he will.

“Because I want to be,” he says instead. He brings their joined hands to his mouth and presses a gentle kiss to her fingers.

When he looks at her face, she’s giving him a curious expression he doesn’t recognize, and with no warning, she kisses him.

It happens fast—he’s so surprised that he startles, barely feeling the imprint of her mouth on his before she’s drawing back with an apology, and when he reaches out to stop her from pulling away, he spills his wine on her skirt.

She yelps at the cold liquid and for a stunned moment, they’re staring at each other, before they both burst out laughing.

He’s made her laugh before, but never like this—with her whole body, crying, her hand white-knuckling his to keep from sliding right off the bench. They’re howling and joyful and it feels like seven years of tension escaping all at once, the hysterical equivalent of a warp-core breach.

When it passes, they’re both panting for breath, wiping their cheeks, and he knows there’s more in the tears rolling down their faces than laughter. He looks at her, red-faced and relaxed, her smile finally reaching her eyes, and it’s all laid bare inside him—the way he thrives in her company like no other, the vulnerability of all the secrets they’ve shared, all the times he wanted to scream at her, and how very much, for seven years, he’s wanted to love her in any way he can.

She collects both their wine glasses—hers got spilled somewhere too, in the melee—and sets them as far away as she can reach. “That was—”

“—not our best work,” he finishes, and feels a rush of affection when she starts laughing again.

She swats at his arm. “Can you believe we used to run a starship?”

He takes the opportunity to catch her hand with his, lacing their fingers again. It feels natural, like they never really let go. “All the way across the galaxy, I’m told.”

“Hard to believe.” This time he recognizes the look on her face when he sees it. “Do you want to give that another try?”

He still feels the echo of their emotional release, all his cells alive and vibrating. “More than anything.”

This time, when he cups her cheek, there’s no glass of wine in the way. She leans in, and he has just long enough to fear that it won’t work, that the spark he’s always longed for will be absent, and then he knows there was nothing at all to worry about. Her mouth is soft on his, warm and sure. It’s gentle, loose with their shared laughter, and all his fantasies evaporate in the perfect, sun-lit reality of their first kiss.

When they break apart, she touches her nose to his. “That’s more like it.”

“I don’t know,” he says. His hand is still cupping her face, and he touches her bottom lip with his thumb. “It’s always taken us a while to get things right.”

“Oh no,” she says, and pulls back enough that he can see her rolling her eyes. She’s different than the Kathryn he first loved, older and sharper with stress that may take years to soothe, and she’s so, so beautiful. “Not another seven years.”

His heart is beating like it wants to break out of his chest, and he can’t not say it. “I hope it’s a lot longer than that.”

He watches her take that in. Her eyes well up until one tear falls, and he brushes his thumb across her cheek for all the times he couldn’t.

She clears her throat. “That’s quite a thing to say, on a first date.”

So much has changed in one afternoon. He can’t believe he was ever unsure. “I’ve had a long time to think about it.”

She pats his chest and draws away from him, just long enough to pick up their discarded glasses. Carefully, with shaky hands, he opens the bottle and pours the wine.

She hands him his drink. “To new beginnings?”

“To new beginnings,” he echoes, clinking their glasses together. “As many times as it takes.”

*


End file.
